The River and the Sea
by Saucery
Summary: In a time of conquistadors and brigands, Peter Burke is an officer of the Royal Navy. Neal Caffrey is, ah, not quite a pirate. They run into each other on the high seas. SLASH.


**The River and the Sea**

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><p><strong>PART I<strong>

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><p>The topmast creaked dangerously as Peter surfaced out onto the deck, drenched in sweat and pirates' blood. He fought through a clutch of buccaneers, lurching with the ship's sway, this way and that, moving over and under as he slid his rapier neatly past one set of ribs and out again, into another. His pistol was lost to him. Despite the roar of the wind and the lashing of the foam and the shouting of men both Spanish and English, his mind was <em>quiet<em>, tidy as the box of letters he kept in his desk so that he might, in moments of solitude, read of home and find peace.

But then a flash of color caught his eye - a mad, bull-tempting red - and Peter _cursed_, for that flash of silk and extravagance could only belong to one of the little lordlings he'd been charged with ferrying across the Celtic Sea, and had he not _told_ them to stay below-deck, safe and away from the fighting?

He caught up to it, that hint of scarlet-hued idiocy, grabbed it, and bore it down.

A startled yelp sounded in his ear - he caught a glimpse of blue eyes, an unnaturally beautiful face - and while he couldn't quite remember those features, clearly they were of a spoiled, smooth-skinned aristocrat, and Peter never paid much attention to the nobles aboard, anyway. It was their job was to stay quiet and out of sight; it was Peter's job to protect them, fools that they were.

"Stay down," he ordered, and the eyes widened. A bedraggled dog of a pirate leapt upon them, barking obscenities, and Peter turned - one palm still pressing the nobleman to the deck - and ran the blackguard through.

A spray of blood hit him in the face - and shocked the brat, if his gasp was anything to go by.

"He'd have killed you," Peter hissed, fisting his hand in the creamy ruffles of the idiot's shirt, spilling in buttery profusion over the red waistcoat. "You _fool_. What in the nine hells possessed you to come up here? I told you - "

"Captain Burke," said the noble, wonderingly, as though he'd never seen Peter before. "Whatever are you doing?"

"Saving your life," snapped Peter, and hauled him behind the stacked barrels of wine. "Don't move. Don't _breathe_."

"That seems rather unhealthy." A fey, elfin smile curled the delicate mouth. What, was the man _unhinged_? Smiling in the midst of an invasion? "Of course, if you kissed me, I might be convinced to go without breathing for a good _long_ while."

Peter _jerked_ - let go of the ludicrous shirt - and swore. "Bloody court fops," he said, mostly to himself, and turned around. "I'll be back to fetch you when - when it's over. _Don't move._"

"My hero," lilted the voice, behind him, but Peter paid it no mind. Another pirate was heading toward them. Peter moved to intercept, only to spot a blur of motion on his right, as well, but as he swerved to avoid it the ship _rolled_, throwing him off his feet, and in his effort to keep his falling body between the pirates and that insane, depraved aristocrat, he tilted the wrong way and knocked his head upon the deck.

In _that very instance_, he knew he was done for - the brief stun of it sparking stars across his vision, disabling him for a crucial moment - and he thought of El, her lovely eyes, her dimples, before the blow struck him.

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><p>It was supposed to have been a final blow.<p>

It wasn't.

That much was clear; Peter was still alive, albeit dubiously so, his every breath edged with a fraying, scattering pain that gathered at the base of his skull, delicate as a throw of lace, before sharpening into unexpected pincers. He'd been concussed, which was a strange phenomenon, given that he'd expected to be sliced. But no matter how often he glanced down at his abdomen, it refused to bleed; there was no cut there, nor a tear in his uniform, nor the blossom of a spreading stain.

The ship was taken. The knowledge both galled and sickened, and he thought of his men, and his charges, God, those innocent young fools - the boy he'd thought he'd _saved_ - had they all been killed? Had Peter caused their deaths, in his incompetence? Even among his sailors, it was well-known that Peter Burke forgave many things, but not incompetence. To have it be his _own_ folly was - was unbearable. All those _lives_, precious to their loved ones, sons of soon-to-be-mourning parents and young fathers and longed-for husbands - all those lives, wasted. Because of him.

He did not wonder why they'd kept him alive; perhaps they hoped to ransom him. It was a common enough method of squeezing that last bit of money from a pirates' raid; that didn't make it any less dishonorable for the officer being ransomed. Shame ate at Peter, from the inside out, like a bottle of caustic shattered in his belly. The acid of it made bile rise in his throat. If he were more of a romantic, he'd wish they _had_ killed him - but no, Peter was a practical man, and any moment of extended life was another opportunity to serve his queen. (Well, that sounded rather romantic, in itself.) He could find out what had happened to his people; he could perhaps exact a bit of tasteful revenge, as soon as he got out of these thrice-damned _ropes_.

With his brain dutifully stabbing him with pitchforks every few seconds, however, any plan of action had to wait. Whatever he'd been hit with had certainly been very heavy, or, perhaps, wielded by a very heavy hand. Momentum did wonders for impact. Peter wondered if he had a dent in his head. It had been wiped clean, at least, for there was no prickle of drying blood.

"Captain Burke!" called a cheerful voice - a familiar _lilt_ of a voice - and Peter nearly knocked himself over in surprise. His chair rocked back on its hind legs, then rocked forward again; through the resulting bolt of pain, he recognized the shape of the scarlet-coated aristocrat in the door.

"You," rasped Peter, still trying to put his thoughts together. They had momentarily been derailed at this most unexpected reunion. Both he and the nobleman were, after all, supposed to be dead. Unless this was a creative rendition of the afterlife.

"Me, indeed! Oh, you look quite a sight. Unconscionable, really, the way they bruised your handsome face. I _did_ tell them to spare it." Pale fingers reached out, running lightly along Peter's jaw, and he flinched back.

"What," he began, then stopped. The nobleman had influence with the pirates. The ship had obviously been taken; else, Peter would not be in captivity. "Who - "

"Ah. As you've probably guessed, I am not all that I seem. Although I _may_ seem all that I am." A playful smile, that sent a burn of horrified realization through Peter.

"You're - you're one of - " He almost couldn't bring himself to _say_ it, it was so bizarre and universally unjust, that he should have fallen - let his _ship_ fall - for the sake of a pirate. "You were never on my ship," he said, instead. "You were never one of my charges."

"Those helpless little princes? No, certainly not. More's the pity; I could've made an excellent prince. I play the part well enough, don't I?" The man cocked his hip, placing an elegant hand on it, and Peter boggled. _This_ was a pirate?

"You are," said Peter, dully, "quite the con."

A strange expression flickered across the con's features. "I hadn't actually set out to fool you, you know. I happen to _like_ being fashionable. If you've got the riches, why not flaunt them, I say? I never did understand that most oxymoronic state of impoverished piracy. Not that I'm precisely a pirate, you see."

"Oh?" Peter asked, through his headache. The knave's countenance seemed carved of luminous marble, in the dim light through the cabin's curtains, a god of thieves sent to taunt him. "And what are you?"

"A - consulting pirate, if you will. I do not generally prefer the high seas. Nor do I sail exclusively under the jolly roger." A mischievous grin. "Jolly though the rogering may be..."

"If you are not a pirate," said Peter slowly, succinctly, "then why am I your prisoner aboard a vessel of the Royal Navy that has recently been apprehended by pirates?"

"Well," said the bastard, the liar, the _criminal_, "you're mine. You saved my life - or _thought_ you were saving my life, and, oh, that was just adorable. And utterly stunning. Nobody's ever done that for me before, you know. Literally throwing themselves into the path of bodily harm and mortal peril - although Mozzie wagered most of his private funds on me, once, and for Mozzie, that might as well _be_ mortal peril - but that's a story for another day." He shrugged. "I owe you a debt for trying to save my life, and since I do not believe in unpaid debts, I will do my utmost to save yours."

"Forget my life," said Peter, an edge of the desperate rage he'd been feeling finally turning his voice raw. "Save my men's lives. Any of them. Any that are still living - what of the passengers? Are they - "

"Wait." The man appeared disquieted, or perhaps merely surprised. "You would ask for their lives, instead of yours?"

"You said you believe in paying debts. I owe a debt to my country, that I can never adequately repay - and I owe a debt to my men, a debt of trust, although I have betrayed it for a - " con, a bloody _con_ " - moment of lunacy."

"Nonsense. Your heroism was quite dashing. Lunatics are _not_ dashing, let me tell you that. I've met plenty of them; I should know." There was a silence, and when Peter did not join in the banter (how could this braggart even imagine that he _could_?), the man sighed. "None of the passengers were killed. Rest assured. Out of your crew, only those that died in battle are lost; those that survived, with wounds or without, are in the holding cells, with the passengers. Chained, of course. And, in some vociferous cases, gagged."

This - this couldn't be. It was too much to hope for, too much to _take_, if it turned out to be a lie. "There are no pirates that do not summarily kill their opponents."

"Unless they can be ransomed. The aristocrats spoke for themselves, with their rich brocades and gold watches; it was obvious they would fetch a healthy ransom from their families. As for the sailors, I might have - oh - made something of a case, you see, insinuating that the Royal Navy could and would pay to have its men back, even the lower-ranked ones, and while the pay may be small, any pirate to claim a prisoner and share his food could reasonably be expected to _keep_ that pay. It's remarkable, honestly, what pacifists one can make of pirates if there's a pot of gold at the end of that rainbow. Especially if it's a _short_ rainbow, and, well, we're only a week away from the nearest port. The crew won't have to tolerate the prisoners for long."

A cold sweat sprang up on Peter's skin - part relief, part sick terror at how close he _had_ come to losing everyone. How close he might _still_ come.

"Are you all right? You look rather ill."

"I'm fine," said Peter. "Just. I - I will. Pay. Out of my personal estate. In case the Navy does not."

"What?"

"The younger officers," Peter gritted out. "I will pay for them."

"With your _estate_? Are you mad?"

"They are my men," said Peter.

The pirate - for that was what he _was_, no matter what he said - stared. "You... You really." He seemed, miraculously, to run out of words - but the miracle was short-lived. "Are you quite sure the queen won't pay? They _do_ call her Queen El, so fond are the masses of her. She's a paragon of kindness, is she not?"

"Her Highness," Peter managed, around a suddenly tight throat (El, sweet El, his only queen, his distant star), "is indeed most kind. However, the parliament of vultures that surrounds her is not."

Fine eyebrows shot up. "Not very fond of your government, are you?"

"I know the truth of it."

"And the truth of it is that they'll let junior officers die?"

"Only those without titles," said Peter, "or money."

"But they _do_ have money. Yours."

"Yes." Peter closed his eyes.

"Astonishing," the pirate murmured. "I didn't know they made men like you, anymore."

"No one _made_ me," Peter opened his eyes again, "except myself."

"My point exactly." Once again, the pale fingers swept forward - this time, to sift through Peter's hair. "A curious creature," he murmured, and for a moment, his smile seemed strangely wistful. He drew back. "Would you protect me so, if I were one of yours? If I came to you for amnesty?"

There was an odd piquancy to the question, and as much as Peter would have liked to tell him that no, he'd would sooner see him hang, Peter _also_ knew himself, and his duty to the law. "If it were lawful amnesty, lawfully requested - "

"You're really trying to impress lawfulness onto me, aren't you?"

" - then yes, I would protect you."

"You'd be honor-bound to do so?"

Peter inclined his head. It still _hurt_, and the movement reminded him of the pain. "Yes."

The man considered him. "Then so am I. Honor-bound, that is. I will keep you safe, or, at least, as safe as you can be kept."

Peter snorted; he wouldn't trust this liar's honor farther than the first speck of dirt on his boot-heel.

"Disregard me if you will; it is your choice. But make no attempts at escape, or your men will suffer for them."

_That_ was the truth. Peter recognized it, in the manner of one very familiar with death and with recognizing the threat of its ever-present immediacy. "Very well." He would _not_ thank this - this silver-tongued devil for the information, for if it weren't for him, Peter would still have his ship - or an honorable death in the defending of it. And to think that this epicene little _fop_ had beaten him -

"I'd _dearly_ love to know the filthy names you're calling me, right now," said the pirate. "They must sound lovely, from that stern mouth of yours."

Peter glowered.

"Hm, yes, you're quite the catch. Even if I do say so myself." There was a fond, proprietary look on his face. "My name's Neal, by the way. Neal Caffrey. There are other names, but this is the one I'd want you to know me by."

The name seemed strangely familiar, but with a syncopated headache pounding at his temples, Peter could not quite place it. "Caffrey," he said, grudgingly. "Which port are we headed to?" There were at least three ports within a week's sailing, after all.

"I shan't tell you, good sir, for I have the distinct impression you'll find some way to exploit that information."

"From a chair? With my hands tied?"

"I've seen you run a man through with frightening efficiency. That rather makes me want to _keep_ you tied." A tilt of the head; an appreciative glance. "Not that I wouldn't want to keep you tied on your _other_ merits..."

Peter ignored him; Caffrey talked much as the dandies in Elizabeth's court did, flirtatious without any real intent behind their flirtations, like vacuous wearers of the mask of Dionysus, wearing it only because it was in fashion, rather than because it signified any deeper lust. And if Caffrey's words had in them a tinge of persistence that was unusual, surely it was only a matter of time before he stopped jesting that there was anything in Peter's very ordinary appearance that could catch the eye of such a changeling.

"Well?"

"You aren't the captain," Peter said, "or you would not mention _trying_ to keep me alive, or insinuating suggestions to the crew. You'd merely order them, if you wanted something done."

"Perspicacious of you," Caffrey observed. "You're quite right. But I _am_ the captain's most prized crew-member, although I do hover somewhere outside the chain of command."

An irritating itch of suspicion started up in Peter's skin. "What _are_ you, then?"

"This and that. Artist. Thinker. Worshiper of beauty. Pilgrim of life."

Peter entertained a brief fantasy of tearing out of his ropes and throttling the very life out of its 'pilgrim'.

"Oh, _oh_, that's a scintillating glare. I can't quite tell if you're vivisecting me with your eyes, or disrobing me."

"It's a vivisection," said Peter, tightly. "Most certainly a vivisection."

"Pity. The captain should be here to see you soon, at any rate, once he's done distributing the bounty."

Peter didn't say anything. He _couldn't_ say anything, short of perhaps dashing his own head against the walls, to see England's rightful wealth so squandered on ingrates.

"You'll stay put, won't you? And not make any trouble?"

"The Navy will have my head," muttered Peter.

"Well," said Caffrey, an unsettling glint in his eye. "Then I'll have your tail."

And Caffrey was off, after an unnecessarily fond farewell. As the door shut behind him, it suddenly dawned on Peter where he'd heard that name - where he'd _seen_ it, in notices passed around in the Queen's Council several months ago, when a certain holy relic had vanished from an extremely well-guarded fort.

Caffrey. Neal Caffrey. Master forger, inveterate thief, painter, seducer, brigand and criminal genius.

A consulting pirate.

A _prized_ member of the crew.

A pilgrim of life.

Peter tipped his head back, ignoring the tell-tale flare of pain, and _laughed_.

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><p><strong>to be continued.<strong>

(After a two-month hiatus, I'm afraid, as I will soon be going overseas.)**  
><strong>

Please review!

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><p><strong>Notes:<strong>

1) This story was single-handedly inspired by the glorious first episode of season three, with the rapier and the fencing and the sea-bound piracy and everything. Oh, _Neal_. If only you _were_ a pirate. Oh, wait, you are! I just made you one!

2) The title is based on the following quote from Kahlil Gibran's _The Prophet_: "For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one." The not-so-subtle implication is, of course, that Neal is the river, ever-changing and free, and that Peter is the sea, immutable and deep.


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